Statistically Speaking
by Cuppa Char
Summary: Statistically speaking he should be dead. Well, that's what he thought anyway. He hadn't actually read it, but he's pretty sure if he had, that's what it would say. (post S2)
1. Chapter 1

Statistically Speaking

_[Or That One Time Everything Is Insignificant Until It Wasn't]_

Summary_: _Statistically speaking he should be dead. Well, that's what he thought anyway. He hadn't actually read it, but he's pretty sure if he had, that's what it would say. (post S2)

Characters: Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski

Genre: Gen

A/N: First of all – just a small shout out to Phoenix – and all who have been following my _many _wips. I have not abandoned any of them and intend to complete them all, but I just couldn't resist in dabbling in this – I mean Stiles and his father is one of the best and perfectly executed father/son relationships on TV at the moment. Oh the angst. Oh the feely feels.

This is my first TW fic. I have only seen one episode of S2 so far (except for youtube videos and what I've read fic-wise) so inaccuracies may occur. I apologise in advance.

General spoilers for S2

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. The show and characters are not mine. Not for profit. No infringements intended.

xxx

Stiles woke to a face full of asphalt and an excruciating arm after a day of insignificances.

Such as an insignificant day at school, full of monotone and glibness, work he could do in his sleep, that resulted in him sitting back on the bench now that both Scott and Jackson were on top form. Which wasn't really a surprise after all. In fact it was insignificant.

Conversation with Scott at lunch had been equally insignificant with Scott moping on about Allison, as usual, and their epic clandestine affair, seemly so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed Stiles had his own equally troubling and distressing issues he couldn't talk about. Like how things were still pretty bad and strained between he and his dad or how they barely talked at breakfast this morning, both going through the motions as though it was a standard day. Because it was. And therefore totally insignificant.

The day had resulted in an impromptu pack meeting that Stiles had found himself attending. He didn't know why of course because anything he suggested was shot down with a scoff, even Scott suggesting that _'you might not get it, Stiles. I mean you're not one of us.' _Stiles knew that Scott had meant he wasn't a werewolf but it still stung. He'd left abruptly after that, mumbling an excuse about having to meet his dad and pointedly ignoring the uncomfortable looks of Isaac (not very surprising) and Derek (somewhat surprising) and high-tailed it out of there before anyone could object, his head buzzing with _it's insignificant _and _I'm insignificant._

By the time he was actually driving home he was wound with barely suppressed anger and a burning feeling wrapped around both his heart and lungs after his crap day (or if he was being honest... he's never ending hugely distressful PTSD'ing last few months what with having the crap beaten out of him, being held at gun-point, watching a man die and walking in on a bloody massacre. And lets not forget Kanima juice) of insignificances. If that's what he was calling it. It's not, not really, but everyone was treating it, him, like it was insignificant.

No, it was pretty much significant. Huge, even.

So the anger and frustration of the day might be leaving him just the slightest bit distracted. Not to the extent that he's driving dangerously, because he's not but in hindsight (and after tonight there might be many) he should probably have been more aware of the other people driving around him than he actually was, but he's still quite furious at Scott and worrying his lip at the way his dad keeps looking at him, suspicious and hurt, and he might actually have slipped his belt off courtesy of the fact that his shoulder was still giving him jip from where Gerard 'Prehistoric' Argent had beaten him, and not really taking notice of the way the second car back on the opposite side of the road was flashing it's lights and revving it's engine, obviously frustrated at the fact the car in front was going at a steady pace and obviously ensuring it remained within the speed limit.

In fact Stiles only becomes aware of the drama unfolding when the second car suddenly honks it's horn and Stiles flashes his eyes across at the two of them, registering the erratic driving, the flashing lights, the sudden accelerating and breaking, the noise of revving intermingling with intermittent bouts of breaking and the horn blaring.

"Asshole," Stiles mutters.

It's then that the car starts to break away from the convoy with such a sudden and decisive move, leaving Stiles no time to react except to try and break. The suddenness of it pushes him back into his seat, arms taught against the wheel despite the pain flaring in his shoulder. Even with his automatic emergency break (and his Driver Ed had always said he had immaculate reflexes) he knows he's going to be hit. It's one of those clear moments, even if it's barely seconds, where he's seeing velocity and projectiles before it actually happens.

The driver in front, who Stiles now registers as a woman, must have panicked because instead of breaking she actually speeds up. The second car must have realised it's mistake because it tries to whip back in, and Stiles knows it can be so much worse – it could be a head on hit, but as such the car cuts back in front of the first, slicing in like a shark through water, but not before clipping the Jeep's wing as it did.

The impact throws Stiles forward and his head is hitting glass, body shattering it and tumbling through after, before the car even starts spinning with the hit. His body somersaults neatly over the hood of the Jeep and crumples against the ground.

So that's how he ends up with a face full of asphalt. But he wouldn't know that because he was out before he even excited the windscreen.

xxx

Stiles came to with a face full of asphalt. He blinked at it, seeing the shiny granules winking in and out. It took a second longer to realise his arm felt like it had been ripped from it's socket, but if it had he probably wouldn't have felt the excruciating pains firing up and down it, settling in his fingers just to retrace it's path back up to his shoulder.

He swallows against the nausea threatening to make an appearance and tentatively rolls the other side of his body so that he flopped on to his back. His shoulder explodes in white hot poker pain as he did so, his vision blinking out for a few seconds and he's only slightly aware that there's a shriek coming from him, leaving him panting on the floor.

"Oh," he hisses through it. "Bad move." He made a mental note not to try that again.

Lying there he processes that he might actually have been thrown through his windscreen. He can't remember it happening. All he knew was that one minute he was in the Jeep and the next he wasn't. Statistically speaking he should be dead. Well, that's what he thought anyway. He hadn't actually read it, but he's pretty sure if he had, that's what it would say.

He's not entirely sure he's even understanding himself any longer. Was that a bad sign?

He huffs a pained breath through his nose, vaguely remembering that he'd just made a mental note not to move, but he tests himself despite the fear (and clouding confusion) and lifts his head slowly. His shoulder, although not moving, resists the movement and Stiles feels the muscles stretch painfully from the top of his neck and around his shoulder. There might even be some bone moving against bone further down the arm.

"Sweet Jesus..." Stiles manages, a sob finding it's way into his voice, as he scans his surroundings quickly. His shoulder gives out then (but not before processing that he can't see anything except for the one side of the Jeep not actually hit – light still miraculously working and slicing through the darkness – illuminating drops of water) and he drops back down on to the hard and uninviting road miserably.

He's cold and wet and shivering and there's most definitely a broken arm. A concussion too if the blood dripping into his eye and swimming vision is anything to go by.

And it's raining. Which probably explains why he's cold and wet, the rain drops hitting him in the face, mixing with the blood, causing him to try and blink the sting away. But he could also be bleeding out, haemorrhaging on the road with no one to see, blood pressure dropping and body cooling with shock. He could be _dying _for all he knew.

The sudden thought has him inhaling a painful breath (oh, yeah... why not throw in some broken ribs too) as fear strickens him. It's not because he's scared of dying (of course he is – who the hell wouldn't be?) but he's spent the last year continuously scared of what was happening around him … what could, and most probably would, happen. What had Miss Morrel called it? _Hypervigilence. _Yeah. None of that was new. No, it was more to do with the fact that if he died, he'd leave his dad all alone. It's the same fear, the same desperation, the same energy that had himself dragging himself across the floor of the station to get to his father, arms shaking, despair wound through his very core, when Matt was stood over his unconscious father. Back then, amidst the fierce need to protect his father, it had been _'please don't. don't take him. I need him.'_

It was, quite simply, the same fear of being abandoned, that he might be the one to be doing the abandoning.

And... with the Stilinski's shit luck, it would be his father to find him dead on the road. What with the sparse amount of officers at the moment, thanks to Matt's down-sizing, and his father's hastily re-employment as a result, it was highly likely to happen.

Stiles decided there and then that would not happen and decided he'd have to get to his phone, which he, despite his hammering heart and swimmy vision, vaguely remembers was (or hopes) still in the Jeep (_Stiles threw the phone on to the passenger seat ignoring the annoyingly chirpy alarm to alert him that someone had text him. Scott, most probably, considering he'd already ignored the last two)._

Ignoring the physical need not to move, Stiles huffs another breath – holds it there in his mouth, cheeks puffed out – as he rolls on to his good? Better? Side and levers himself up, bringing his other arm in, cradling it against his stomach. He lets the breath out slowly and then sucks it back in even quicker through barely parted lips, hissing through the pain. The breaths continue in and out of him, a mixture of pain and adrenaline, just short of full blown hyperventilating.

He's not even sure how he's even standing right now. The sudden altitude has his head dizzyingly bopping on his head and he makes a beeline that really was more of a stumbling zig-zag to the hood of the Jeep. Once there he sags against it, trying to hold himself up with one trembling arm. He dumbly registers that there's no sign of any other car around, and yeah he might have a concussion and things might not be all that clear at the moment – except that he needs his dad to be okay with everything – anger settles in his stomach. He'd been left for dead. It's not like anyone could miss that.

Swallowing down the anger and another surge of nausea, he drags himself around the edge of the Jeep, the metal frame holding him up firmly, securely, responsibly, until he tugs the passenger side open and practically falls face down before sliding the rest of the way, butt first. It jostles his arm some more and causes a pained gasp to fly out of his mouth.

As he tries to calm his breathing and re-compartmentalise his pains he takes a second to look down at himself, now that he wasn't lying flat on his back, and sees that there is blood oozing through his left pant leg. There's a jagged mark through the material from mid thigh to his knee. So, he might _actually_ be bleeding out. His left arm, he also notices, was bent at a ridiculous angle. He blanches at the sight and his breaths, the ones already too fast, speed up, wheezing in his throat.

He reaches out blindly, hand searching for the purchase of his phone with a desperate need _to get help _and he nearly sobs in relief when he grabs something and snatches it back, hand bloody over the phone. There's a least a few more missed messages from Scott and, quite surprisingly, a missed call from Derek. One from his dad too.

Stiles deletes the messages angrily without even reading them. He didn't want to speak to Scott and despite not wanting to scare him only a few minutes before - which in his concussed and overly-emotional brain he might actually have forgotten – it was his dad, not Derek, he wants.

He wants his dad.

He thumbed through the phone, leaving smudged prints of blood, until he gets to his dad's number. He tries to calm his breathing, level it out, and mask any panic that might still be lingering in him (which, not surprisingly, was a lot).

"Stiles?" his dad greets him on the second ring, voice bright and unconcerned (so maybe Stiles hasn't been out too long). "I tried calling you earlier. Just wanted to let you know that I might-"

"Dad?" Stiles cuts him off. He'd intended to try a calmly tailored voice, a _'Don't freak out, okay?' 'Listen, I'm okay, but...'. _What actually came out was a shaky breath, sob stuck in his throat, swallowing up the word. He might as well has cried _'Daddy!'_

"Stiles?" his dad asks, voice snapping to attention, all traces of carefree and unconcerned gone. He hears the rustle of papers, of a body moving and he closes his eyes imagining his dad at his desk, surrounded by paperwork, feet on his desk, burger in his hand... all immediately forgotten. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I... my Jeep..." Stiles starts, but the sob from before has loosened and now he's finding it difficult to speak between the shuddering breaths and full out sobbing. "It wasn't my fault... he... just came out... nowhere."

"Stiles!" his dad snaps at him, sounding a mixture of anger and fear. Both of which he had wanted to avoid. He really should have called Derek. At least he'd get to him faster. And he might have already been tucked up at home. His Dad would have been none the wiser. "Are you hurt?"

He considers lying, but he has some major boo boos here and he misses his mom and he doesn't want Derek, and what was the point of calling his dad again?

"Stiles?" his dad asks urgently.

"My arm... my leg. Kinda bleeding here..." Stiles tries before another round of sobs overtake him. "It hurts, dad."

"I know, son," his dad tries to soothe, although his tone does nothing to soothe him. His dad sounds scared. _He's_ scaring his dad. "Where are you?"

"I don't know," Stiles confesses, heart constricting. He's in the middle of nowhere, broken limbs and bleeding profusely, and how the hell was his dad supposed to find him.

"Stiles!" his dad barks at him and Stiles jumps at the ferociousness of it, jarring his body and causing his head to ache, ears buzzing with the noise. He's terrified now because his dad is panicking and this wasn't supposed to be happening.

"Don't shout," Stiles pleads as his dad's panic leaches into him and seizes him. He feels the rushed breaths increase once more. A sob rips through him leaving him even more breathless. "It's not my fault."

"I'm sorry," he hears his father try and level his breathing in his ear. "Just stay calm okay, kiddo. I need you to stay calm for me. Can you do that?"

"I'm trying," Stiles tells him honestly. He bites down on his lip to try and help.

"Okay, that's good Stiles. That's really good."

He knows his father is making a great effort to keep his voice calm for his sake just as he was making a great effort to calm his breathing so that he doesn't asphyxiate on his own paralysing fear and pain.

"You're doing really good, Stiles," his dad's voice is rich and warm in his ear. Stiles closes his eyes and breathes it in. Breathe in. Breathe out. Rich and warm. Breathe in. Breathe out. "That's it, Stiles. In and out. Just like that."

After a few minutes of some rather immaculate lamaze breathing – his dad should seriously consider teaching this shit for real (it's not like he hasn't had the practice) – he hears his dad's voice in his ear again. "Stiles?"

"Hmm?" he asks, eyes closed and breathing deeply, imagining the pain was fading away. Mind over matter.

"I know you're scared, but I really need you to tell me where you are," his dad reminds him. "I can't help help you if I don't know where you are. What can you see kiddo?"

Stiles hasn't a clue what road he's on. He should, but he doesn't and he tells his dad exactly that along with here he was headed (home) and the fact he'd passed a funny shaped bush sometime before that. "You know?" Stiles asks as though his dad does. "The one that looks like a rabbit?"

"A squirrel," his dad automatically corrects.

Stiles almost sobs in relief again.

"Rabbit," he huffs out painfully. It was a debate that they had many times before and he really hopes they can do it again but he doesn't say it loud because he's only just calmed enough to stop shouting at him and he really doesn't want to go through all of it again. Not fun.

He hears his father moving again, what sounds like fingers clicking urgently, hushed voices as his father barks out orders and there's no hint of panic or fear, just military precision. His heart swells with pride and he remembers, as a kid, why he'd loved visiting his dad at the station, trussed up in his uniform, badge shiny and bright in Stiles awe filled eyes.

"_You're the king of the castle," an eight year old Stiles giggled as his dad swung him around his newly acquired office._

Nowadays they were lucky if there was even a passing acknowledgement at breakfast. What with his father's shifts and Stiles own unusual hours and wolf-keeping, they could sometimes go days without seeing each other. Like ships in the night.

"Stiles? Are you still with me?"

"Huh? Dad?" Stiles asks, suddenly realising his dad has been talking to him. He must have lost some time, blinked out on his dad, because there was an undertone of worry to his father's voice.

"Are you okay?"

It's laughable really. They've already concluded that he's not.

"Yeah. Just cold and wet and hurting," despite the words there's not a trace of sarcasm there. "But I'm okay... I'm sorry for freaking you out."

"You can apologise later, okay?" his father states and Stiles finds himself nodding slightly even though there was no one to see. "But for now I need you to hang up the phone."

"What?!" Stiles shouts, body jarring with shock and he hisses against the pain. "No... I need you to stay on the phone with me. What if you can't find me? What if no one can see me. I'm... I'm scared, Dad."

He knows he sounds like he's pleading but he really doesn't understand why his dad wants him off the phone.

"Stiles," his father sighs in frustration. "You called me on the office phone. I need you to disconnect so that I can call you back on my phone. Helps already on the way. I'm leaving too. I promise I'll call you back."

"Promise?" Stiles asks, sounding all of eight again.

"I promise," his dad tells him firmly. "Just as long as you make sure to answer. You'll do that, Stiles? Right?"

"Y...yeah. I will," Stiles assures him, voice shaky.

"I'll be there before you even know it," his dad tells him before he's even asked. "I'm leaving now, so hang up so I can call you back already."

Stiles terminates the call, and clutches the phone in his right hand, counting out the seconds until his father calls him back, breathing in and out. When he does, the rich and warm voice from before fills his ear again smoothly. Rich and warm. In and out. Rich and warm. In and out.

xxx

_tbc_

A/N2: This was going to be a one-shot but I wanted to get this up before I go away for a week. I wasn't sure if I could get everything up before I left, so I decided to to make a two-shot instead. Hopefully I will have the second part up soon after I return.

Also... for the other wips. I intend to take notes on the others. I am actively working on them. Just wanted to let everyone know as I couldn't personally answer all the guest responses.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well clearly this is now more than a 2-parter. I'm terrible at predicting chapter length. I now think it will be 3, possibly 4. (and now I feel bad for my all my wips... please don't hate me). If it's any consolation- I have most of this drafted, so it wont delay things for too long, and therefore ( .you never know with me) I can get back to completing my wips. I just have strong father/son feels at the mo, and Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski fill my strong desire for this in an _actual_ canon show. Additionally - I wanted to thank all those that reviewed and who I have yet to/can not personally respond to. Thanks muchly!

Warning: Some language banded about.

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. See Chapter 1.

**Chapter 2**

Stiles drops the phone somewhere between staying on the line and his dad arriving. Later he'd probably reassure his father and tell him that it was _fine _because he knew he was coming, but the truth was he'd become tired and confused, and halfway through the broken and slow built one-sided conversation (where Stiles found himself being lulled by his father's constant chatter buzzing through his head) he'd forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

Listening to his dad.

Talking back.

Oh. Right.

The sudden disconnection must have alarmed his father because he arrives in a flurry of lights and sirens. Unsurprisingly his dad arrives before any other emergency vehicles, the cruiser flying past Stiles and the Jeep and jackknifing around. Stiles stares at it in awe for a second before shivering violently at the thought his dad might have been erratic in his driving... he vaguely remembers that he had tried to prevent a reaction like this but he can't remember what had actually changed or why he wasn't fighting for it as much.

His dad scrambles out of the car, leaving the drivers side-door wide open and is running, a frantic look on his face. Stiles recognises it as panic and he knows now why, recognition slapping him in the face. He sucks in a trembling breath and holds it, knowing that letting it out will hurt even more.

His dad stumbles near the front of the car, eyes darting between Stiles and the obviously destroyed windscreen. His face flashes in horror and Stiles feels his own eyes widen in fear, a little horror snaking around his gut in trepidation. For his father to react like that it must mean the Jeep is bad, maybe even un-salvageable. Stiles shakes his head at the thought (ignoring the pain around his shoulder and down his neck), and he knows that there should be more pressing issues at hand, but that's just... no, not the Jeep. Sadness engulfs him... it even lingers in the same way his grief did at loosing his mom. It was his-

"Oh," Stiles says rather sorrowfully, cutting his thoughts off with a shake. "The Jeep, is it bad?"

"Don't worry about that at the moment," his dad says and Stiles blinks in surprise when he realises he's already squatting in front of him, hands at his face. "Lets focus on you."

"Huh," Stiles muses before attempting to swat his dad's hands away. It only results in tug of pain down his neck again and he winces at it. "I'm fine."

His dad frowns at this before pulling his hand back revealing a startling amount of red. "Still think you're fine."

"Blood," Stiles states as though it needs to be clarified.

"Yes," his dad agrees as he goes back to rummaging through the small amount of hair that Stiles is sporting. He finds a particular sore spot that has Stiles yelping in surprise and igniting all sorts of pains in other areas of his body. "Your blood to be precise," his dad mutters as he braces Stiles suddenly swaying body.

When he's righted again his eyes are drawn back to his dad. The blood isn't just across his palm now.

"You got blood on you," Stiles comments and blinks because it sounds kind of woozy. Can you do that? Sound woozy? He guesses you can because it's all highs and lows and he imagines a heavy body in the midst of everything else being light. Or maybe it was the other way round. Everything was heavy, gravity pulling him down while every fibre of his being just wanted to float away.

"Don't worry about it."

"But you got it on you." It's true; there's a great big smudge of it. He doesn't know why he's so concerned about it right now (they're supposed to be in the middle of an emergency, right?) but there's something alarming, disturbing even, for the Sheriff to be adorned in someone else's blood, even if it was just a simple smudge adorning his cuff.

"Stiles? Where are you hurt, son?"

"Hmm..." Stiles hums distractedly. He reaches out with his good arm, actually licking his fingers to dampen the smudge, and attempts to grab at his father's sleeve. It was harder then expected because he ends up reaching and stretching and panting though the pain. He pauses just once to catch his breath before he struggles once more.

"Stop it, Stiles," His father instructs him but it's not until he's catching the flailing hand within his own that he does. It's warm against his own skin making him realise how much colder he is than his father. Shivering against it, he turns sluggish eyes towards him. "I said stop it!"

His dad is looking at him with a mixture of anger and concern, "Stay focused, kiddo."

"Kay..." Stiles mumbles, hand still cupped in his dad's.

"Let's start again, shall we?" his dad asks him.

Stiles nods slowly, dropping back against the car, squirming against the discomfort it causes in his neck and shoulder again. Closing his eyes he feels his dad squeeze his hand. He would have squeezed back only he's feeling a bit nauseas again and all he can do is focus on being focused. Currently this entails keeping his eyes closed and focused on the blackness and non-tilting world.

"Where does it hurt?"

"My head, obviously-" Stiles murmurs, shivering once more. "but you know that already. What with all the blood-"

"Stiles-" his dad warns, squeezing his hand again. "Stay focused."

"I am," he snaps, eyes opening briefly before he slides them shut again because the world, including his dad, spins on its axis and he'd rather feel as though everything was the right way up than have his dad doing some weird psychedelic spin. If he wanted everything the wrong way up he'd be watching David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly in Labyrinth and their topsy turvy stair chase.

"What else?" his father asks calmly when it becomes clear Stiles isn't focused at all.

"Right," Stiles laughs when he realises it too. "My arm."

"Yeah," his dad tells him, voice pained in sympathy. "It looks broken."

"Hmm," Stiles hums, contemplating it. He (stupidly) tests his shoulder movement, knowing the outcome before the pain even hits. His reaction is almost instantaneous – eyes blink open and water, flashing to his dad who can only squeeze his hand in return. "My shoulder too."

"Right," his dad remarks with a smirk. "Lets not try that again. Okay?"

Stiles coughs out a small wet laugh and silently decides to agree.

"Dad?" Stiles asks nervously, unsure if he should alarm him even further. His dad looks at him worriedly, identifying the tone to the one usually reserved for when Stiles used to confess to having panic attacks _after _he'd had them (of course, eventually Stiles stopped telling him all together). "My neck hurts. Just a bit. It's more sore than anything."

"Okay," his dad tells him, attempting to be reassuring. He ends up sounding like a typical scared parent, voice too serious and too forced to be anything but fake. "I'm sure it's nothing, but no more flailing around for now until we're sure. You took quite a hit kiddo. It's only to be expected."

"Uh huh," Stiles hums back. The world has righted itself again and his father is actually upright but Stiles can't bear to look at the worry across his face so he pretends that it's not and closes his eyes again. "Should I continue?"

"There's more?" his dad sounds disillusioned. Even with the tone he's not sure if his dad's trying to make light of the situation because evidently there's a _great big gaping wound _in his leg.

"Unfortunately yes," he huffs out instead. He breathes in and out, satisfied that there's no rattling or distress to it except for the lingering panic in him, but there is a tightness there, a soreness that he could only mean one thing. "I might have a broken rib or two."

"Does it hurt to breathe?" a second hand is lightly placed against his own chest. Not enough to cause any pain. Stiles finds it more reassuring than anything, anchoring him back and reminding him that his dad would keep him from completely floating away.

"Not really. It's just sore."

"Stiles..." his father warns, panic edging back in. Clearly his dad thinks, in Stiles limited vocabulary, hurt and sore equate to the same thing.

"It's fine, dad." Stiles says, cracking one eye open to look at him. "I can breathe okay."

His dad blinks down at him, scrutinising him further.

"Just... tell me if you have trouble breathing."

When Stiles doesn't answer straight away his dad growls "Okay?"

"Yes father," he answers, eye closing again. "You're rather hen-pecking today."

"Somebody has to be," his dad's gruff voice envelopes him along with a warmth from a jacket. A quick eye scan reveals his dad sans jacket and Stiles blinks at the gesture, suddenly feeling as though he was about to cry. He blinks away the stupidity, breathing in the scent deeply.

"Funny word 'mother hen'," Stiles mumbles to himself, snuggling into the jacket that laid across him. "Should be Dad Pecking... but it doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?"

And lets not even start on the comparisons with Pack Mom (which really did have a ring to it), because that's not him at all, no sirree, despite what Isaac insisted.

"Shh," his father hums at him.

Stiles is suddenly rudely awakened to fact that his father is not holding his hand any more, what with the warm snuggling under the puffy jacket, when pain intensifies across his thigh.

"Ow!" Stiles exclaims, fidgeting at the same time as trying _not _to move. His father has his hand clamped over the still oozing wound. "Shit! That hurts like a bitch!"

His dad turns a disapproving look in his direction. Stiles stared back. Seriously? His dad chose this moment to frown upon his choice of wording.

"Okay," Stiles pants through the discomfort. "How about god-damn... no? What? Are we Brady-Bunching it? Jeez, Dad... Holy Blasphemy, that sure well hurts."

His dad quirks a smirk at him while continuing to clamp his hand down on the jagged cut.

"Okay, now that we've clarified what I can and can't say," Stiles continues to pant. "All I can say is – yes, there's my leg too."

"I think I noticed," his dad mutters at him.

"Am I dying?" Stiles asks suddenly, imagining his blood pumping away under his dad's palm.

"What?" his dad asks quickly, face snapping to his, pinched in shock. He shakes his head vigorously before trying to smile. In Stiles eyes it seems like an effort. "No! Of course not."

"I'm bleeding out."

"You're not," his dad tells him with a chuckle. It sounds genuine this time. "I don't think you even nicked the artery."

"Well, don't sound too excited about it," Stiles huffs out in displeasure.

"Trust me Stiles. I'm dancing on the inside."

There's sounds of sirens in the distance and Stiles can't help but think it's taken way too long for the second cavalry to arrive. Of course his dad might have been speeding, or the rabbit shaped bush might have lied to him, or maybe he was much closer than thought he was. But then, at least two of them didn't make sense at all. He must have been half-right because his dad's muttering something along the lines of _'finally' _and Stiles is imagining Sheriff 'Dad' Stilinski ripping into them for their tardiness and the look on their faces when they realise whose son it is that their late-response time is for.

He blinks out of this revelry when he realises his dad is actually moving away. In his place there are two more figures.

But all he wants is his dad.

xxx

By the time Stiles is in the ambulance he's agitated as hell.

They have him on a backboard and a neck brace in place. _'Just as precaution' _they tell him. It just causes him to feel like he's trapped, boxed in, with no way out.

They've also given him something to take the edge off, leaving him all fluffy, pain still there. It was either that or the oxygen mask that might very well be secretly pumping laughing gas into him.

Despite the urge to burst into laughter and float away, his anxiety gets the better off him. A machine beeps to a too fast rhythm and a strange man is hovering over him sticking sharp pointy things into his one viable wrist. The panic rises and in the end all he wants to do is cry.

His dad, abandoning both the Jeep and the police cruiser, must have sensed his building anxiety because he's suddenly sliding up next to him. He can't take his hand this time, not with the man with the sharp objects and his refusal to let it go, so his dad ends up finding a spot on his head that's not split open or sore or covered in blood.

Stiles, clearly not in control of his emotions any more, lets out a startled sob. Tears escape from his eyes and slide down the side of his face, some pooling around his ear while others find its way to his hairline and linger there

"Shh," his dad tries to sooth him, voice warm but faltering. He feels someone catch an errant tear and wipe at it. "You're okay."

Stiles doesn't miss the fact that he doesn't add on a promise. There's nothing worse then promising someone they will be okay and then end up not. But it's okay, he tells himself, because he doesn't want a promise. He doesn't want his dad to have to do that and then eat himself up after when it's clear he can't follow through. He wants his dad guilt free. _He_ wants to be guilt free.

If his dad did that he'd probably cry even more.

They're saved from any further embarrassment when the ambulance hits a pothole and the whole cab shakes. Stiles sucks in a breath, a keening moan fluttering out of him as whiteness explodes behind his eyes, a pain he'd forgotten about suddenly throbbing again down the side of his head and face, arm and shoulder screaming silently.

"It's okay... shh..." his dad is murmuring close to him, sounding choked. "You'll feel better soon, kiddo."

The EMT has stopped poking him and is bracing himself against the side of the cab.

"Sorry about that," he offers apologetically. Stiles attempts a frown but it ends up more as a wince. Besides, he knows that his dad is perfecting an angry frown of his own, so it doesn't matter anyway. "Don't worry, kid. You'll be getting the good drugs soon."

Stiles does frown at that. He's already feeling floaty and spaced out and he doesn't want that. Sure, he wants to be safe and okay and in much much much less pain, but more than anything he just wants his dad, he wants to make sure he's still not dead on the road, that his dad isn't the one to find him, that Matt the Freakin' Kanima Conjurer wasn't smashing his head in. He wants, _needs_, his dad to be okay too. More than him at least.

He can't do that if he's feeling like this (floaty and faraway) and if it means being in a world of pain, then so be it.

And if he just wants to be awake so that he knows his dad was still there? Well, no one will say anything.

xxx

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Work schedule is/was/still might be(?) a killer at the moment. I am a psychiatric nurse, but shockingly, they give a minute amount of physical health training, so errors may be a plenty (although I did do some lazy google searching). Thanks for the wonderful reviews/alerts/favourites – I haven't got round to responding to everyone yet.

Warning: Some bad words are muttered. Mostly in pain and/or shock.

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. See Ch.1.

**Chapter 4**

He's being pushed through the corridor.

There must be some element of urgency because the strips of lights above him (the only thing he can see thanks to the restriction of the brace and backboard) are moving too fast, blinking in and out in long and short stretches. There's bodies moving along with him too, muttering things that should sound alarming.

"_Blunt head trauma."_

"_GCS of 13."_

"_Hypotensive." _

"_Possible hypovolemic shock?"_

He can't see them, not with his vision directed at the nauseating ceiling – he'd tried finding one spot to focus on but as soon as he found one it moved and he just ended up trying not to puke all over himself instead – but he can feel them, rushing along the side of the gurney.

His dad's there too, what with Stiles' death grip on his hand, running with him.

It's not until he's being pushed through a set of double doors that they're being dragged away from each other, hands being pulled apart.

He can hear his father yelling through the still swinging doors and Stiles feels his barely controlled panic sky-rocket. He doesn't want them being kept apart. His dad sounds so furious that Stiles can only imagine that his blood pressure was hitting the roof and he really doesn't want him stroking out right there in the corridor. He wants him in the room, god-damn it.

The people in the room with him are shouting words at each other and he squeezes his eyes shut because all the noise is freaking him out. Someone is telling him something but he he doesn't catch what they are saying. The room quietens and then hands are on him.

"On 3. 1... 2... 3."

He's transferred from one gurney to another. He opens his eyes in surprise (and muffled pain) to find someone shining a touch in his eyes. Always the stubborn one, Stiles eyes dart around him, refusing to stay still.

"Keep still, son." the torch bearer tells him.

"Dad..." Stiles mutters.

The guy with the torch (most likely to be the doctor) refuses to acknowledge the demand and continues to stab him in the eyes with sharp strobes of light.

_What part of he wants his fucking dad in here doesn't this guy get?_

"Genim? You have to stay still," the doctor tells him, continuing to try and strobe his eyes. "Okay, son?"

If Stiles was as agitated as hell in the ambulance... well it's ten times worse now. Stiles entire body was restricted in movement, he couldn't move at all, but he tried to fight it, fidgeting against it, eyes darting around frantically. He was fully prepared to flail himself off the gurney if he had to. The doctor's ministrations were making it worse, of course, what with the stabbing him in the eyes, keeping his dad away and calling him by his given name.

"I'm not your son," Stiles says, trying for a threatening mutter but ending up sounding pathetically whiny instead.

"Stiles?" a more familiar voice says. It's warmer and softer than the others, close to his ears. Stiles still can't move so he darts his eyes around again until a face comes into focus. Scott's mom is there, face concerned and motherly.

"Mrs McCall?" Stiles breathes out, relieved that there's someone here who'd understand what he needs.

"Yes, honey," her hands are softly resting against the side of his face that currently doesn't feel like someone's taken a cheese grater to it. "I need you to keep still for me, Stiles. The more you move around the more chance you might hurt yourself."

"Okay," Stiles says with hesitation, resisting the urge to nod. He knows Scott's mom wouldn't lie to him. "My dad..."

"He's fine sweetie," she tells him with a reassuring smile. She lifts her head slightly and he sees her looking somewhere over him. He wonders if it's his dad. "He's outside. I promise you – as soon as we've finished checking you over we'll get rid of the neck brace and get your dad in here."

Stiles sighs once more, letting the doctor shine the torch in his eyes again.

"Pupils equal and responding," the doctor announces. Stiles might not have a medical degree but even he knows this is good and also surprising considering his head had met and exited through a windscreen. "Let's give you something to make you feel better."

Stiles remembers how he felt in the ambulance, the brace preventing him from shaking his head. He's all set on saying no but finds himself muttering "Not the good stuff" instead.

Mrs McCall is already moving away, talking lightly with the doctor, and someone else is moving in, filling his veins with something light and fluffy. The cloud's already drifting in when he hears the soft and familiar voice from before.

"He doesn't go by that name any more. Not since his mom..."

xxx

John is beside himself by the time he actually receives any news.

He's paced up and down the small box, that currently holds the waiting area ,what feels like a million times over and is halfway through a turn when he hears his voice being called from behind.

"John."

"How is he?" he asks, rounding on Melissa. He is fully aware that his voice is full of panic, in full-fledged parent mode, the calm and level headed sheriff no where to be seen. "Is he okay?"

"He's stable," she nods reassuringly at him, squeezing his arm and nodding towards the chairs. He follows her but refuses to sit.

"Okay, what does that mean?" he asks, folding his arms. "Is he going to stay stable?"

He knows that he's being unreasonable (he's been present at various similar conversations with other non-suspecting parents) but this is Stiles. _Stiles. _His kid. Not theirs.

"He's doing good, John. At the moment they don't think it's anything life threatening..."

"But..." he asks nervously, because there was always one. There had to be one, right? The kid went through his fucking windscreen.

"But... his blood pressure is still a bit low, which might indicate he's bleeding somewhere."

"Internally?" John asks, voice barely a whisper, face blanching.

Melissa nods and reaches for his arm again but he waves her off and shakes his head.

"It might not mean that," she tries to reassure him, "but he's being sent for a CT scan and Ultrasound to confirm."

"Okay," John breathes out again, leaning back against the wall. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply. "That's the only bad news? It can only get better, right?"

Melissa gives a sympathetic smile at him, "Pretty much, but as his dad you might disagree."

"Go on," he prods, cracking his eyes open again.

"He's taken quite a hit to the head. It looks like he's got a pretty bad concussion, but so far all tests have been positive. The CT should tell us, but they might send him for an MRI as well. The cut to his thigh is quite deep but it didn't get any arteries. He's broken his arm, but to complicate matters it looks like he's dislocated his shoulder too. They'll probably be able to realign it and push it back in but he needs x-ray first. Depending on how bad the break is, he might need surgery. He's got a couple of broken ribs, which explains why it hurt to breathe, but so far it doesn't look like they've punctured his lungs. They will be looking for any neck or back injures too but at the moment everything seems normal."

John feels himself nodding. He's starting to feel numb along with the catalogue of injuries. They might not be as life threatening at the possibility of internal bleeding but they meant that his kid was in pain. He wasn't okay with that. In fact, it was making him feel quite sick.

"Is he going now?" John asks, pushing from the wall and attempting to shake himself down. "For the tests?"

"Yes," Melissa immediately answers at the same time as the door swings open and Stiles was wheeled out and pushed away. He goes to follow but found himself being blocked.

"Melissa, I respect you but step away," John tells her, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "I wasn't allowed in the room, but he's my kid. He needs me."

Melissa looks uncomfortable and pained and shakes her head.

"Listen... Stiles is pretty much out of it right now. And agitated..."

"More reason for me-" he knows he's glaring, he can't help it – he really does respect her and knows she has a valid reason for not wanting him to be present – but right now he can't help but hate her.

"I know Stiles wants you in there and I know you want to be in there but right now you're too agitated to be. Stiles needs to keep still for these tests and I don't think the state you're in at the moment will help."

He looks down at himself and realises, rather belatedly, that Stiles blood is splattered over him in various places. There's still a patch on his cuff and a rather startling amount dotted all over his pants. He's even managed to get a few hand prints over his shirt and jacket. Looking at his hands he sees that they're pretty much covered. Even if Stiles hadn't been bleeding out, it was still _a lot. Too much._

There was a vending machine on the other side of the hall – the one that had mysteriously fallen over when Lydia had been recovering after her attack – and he stares at his reflection. The reflection that stares back had a couple of smudges across the face too.

"Oh god. Stiles..." he mutters, the panic rising, heart filling his throat.

"Hey..." Melissa hums at him, her hand finds his elbow and tugs at him so that he slides into a half-hug. "He'll be okay. He's stubborn. He never gives up."

"You mean he never shuts up," John says, voice cracking.

He hears Melissa laugh softly, "That too."

"Will you stay with him?" he asks, blinking away un-shed tears and pushing away.

Melissa nods and smiles.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she says. Leaning in and giving him another quick hug, she whispers "I wont leave his side."

"Thanks," he mutters into her hair, squeezing her back.

She moves away to head in the direction that Stiles had been taken, before turning back.

"Could you call Scott?" she asks, "I never got the chance before. He should be here."

John fishes around until he finds his phone.

Waving it at her he nods, watches and waits.

xxx

Scott is sat by himself, perched against a tree alongside the perimeter of what used to be the old Hale residence. He'd been sat there for the last hour. After the disastrous pack meeting, he'd been the target of various sets of disapproving eyes. Even Jackson had set some rather disturbing glowing eyes on him for a lengthy ten minutes until Derek had sent him out for some air. He'd left soon after. Scott wasn't sure what surprised him the most. That Jackson had that much wolfy control or that he was upset over Stiles. Stiles who he hated. Stiles who had nearly won the girl. Stiles who he had loathed until now.

He had then had to deal with Derek lecturing him about packs and their dynamics and eventually sent him outside with his figurative tail between his legs with the strict instruction of getting hold of Stiles and _'putting it right'. _

At first Scott had been fired up, hot headed and un-willing to back down (more a immediate need to rebel against Derek 'freakin' Hale – one half of duo who'd embedded themselves in his life, turned it upside down and pissed on it as though to rub salt in the wound even if the former had no choice in it) but soon he was feeling rather shitty, realising he'd hurt one of the few people he could always, unconditionally rely on.

He didn't mean what he he said. Not entirely. He'd been angry at the world, angry at Peter, angry at this new alpha group, angry at how this would affect him, Allison, and the never-ending war with the Argent's, angry at Derek for just being Derek.

It wasn't that he didn't mean it either. Stiles wasn't a werewolf – he wouldn't always understand everything, not the feeling, the urge, the primalness, the fight to be in control and to be accepted – and Stiles might not get it all until he walked in his shoes and took the bite. He didn't want that though. Never in a million years. Stiles was the light in the dark. Stiles was _Stiles. _He was the humanity amongst them all. Even Allison couldn't truly claim that. And for that reason he was pack but he'd ended being an easy target for Scott to transfer his frustrations from Derek, and all his shit, hell... even at himself, at Stiles instead.

He tried calling him a few times on his phone, left a few messages, but had no replies. He had even called Sheriff Stilinski and asked if he had heard from him. He hadn't, apparently, and had even tried himself to let him know he'd be late for dinner.

He ended up leaning against a tree, sulking at himself, and terrified that he'd destroyed his friendship with Stiles, leaving him in the foulest of moods.

He was still in this mood when his phone suddenly chirped to life.

"What!?" he snaps, thinking it was Derek telling him to get off his land (he'd appeared on the porch once already telling him to do so).

"Oh... Hi?" the voice says in confusion.

Scott blinks in surprise and pulls the phone back to see Stiles' dad flashing across the screen.

"Sorry..." Scott rushes, heat flushing across his face. "I was expecting someone else. Is everything okay? Did you hear from Stiles?"

"That's what I'm calling about-"

Straight away Scott knows something wasn't right. The tone is all wrong. He can hear the worry in the Sheriff's voice. The too fast beat to the heart.

"- We're at the hospital."

"Why?" Scott actually squeaks. "What happened? Are you guys okay? Is Stiles?"

"No," the Sheriff tells him rather bluntly, crushing any hope he might have had "... your mom said he's probably going to be okay, but they're not sure about..." he can't appear to carry on, stumbling over his words, voice trembling so much that it vibrates down the phone and settles into Scott's bones. "- They've sent him for some tests because he has low blood pressure and they're not sure if that means he's bleeding internally."

Scott sucks in a breath and trembles some more, leaning heavily against the tree for support.

"I'm sorry," the Sheriff admits with a huff. "I'm not supposed to be freaking you out. Your mom seems pretty positive... but it's just... how it -"

"What happened?" he asks. The phone is clenched in his hold and Scott thinks the plastic might be cracking.

There's a pause and a breath being levelled.

"I don't know why, but Stiles took his belt off," he hears. He feels his next breath escape him and sees the scenery around him stretch out, trees expanding and retracting, making him feel swallowed up in one full sweep. The house, as he turns, blinks in and out of existence. "The kid went through the windscreen."

"I'm on way," he tells the Sheriff quietly, disconnecting and heading back to the house. He starts with a disconnected and numb walk, but as the emotion starts up, so does his legs and soon he's running full speed towards the house.

By the time he stumbles through the front door, he can feel his hysteria taking over, his breathing out of control.

Derek and Isaac, the only two remaining, barrel through from back of the house, obviously alerted by the hammering of his heart and panicked breathing.

"What is it?" Derek asks, coming to a stop in front of him. His eyes flash and there's a little growl that escapes threateningly. The more Scott stares the more Derek pales, his own eyes widening. Scott doesn't know what the hell is happening but he's sure that they're sharing something. It makes him wonder why no one, especially Derek, didn't know something sooner. Isaac, though, still seems a bit lost, and he ends up darting his eyes around as though looking for the impending danger. "What happened?" Derek growls again.

"Stiles... his dad called -" Scott tries, feeling the hysteria rise, waving the phone around in a daze.

"What? What is it?" Derek asks again. Scott can see he is forcibly trying to quell the urge to growl again. Behind him Isaac whines and whinnies his displeasure.

"The Jeep. He crashed his Jeep," Scott tells him, hearing the sheriff's words spinning around his head. "He... he went through the windscreen."

Derek pales again and mutters something like _'shit' _

"I'll drive you" he tells the two remaining beta's and neither argue or say anything else as they both immediately follow.

They're still in this silence halfway to the hospital when Derek breaks it, drawing his wandering attention from the window (and the never-ending scenarios flashing through his head).

"He'll be okay."

"You don't know that."

"He'll be okay," Derek repeats.

"He went through a fucking windscreen, Derek," Scott spits out angrily. "How can he be?"

"Derek's right," Isaac murmurs his agreement from the back. "Stiles will be okay."

Scott bites his lip and shakes his head.

"You're just trying to make me feel better. You should stop because if he's not I'll hate you. Even more than usual."

"He'll be okay," Derek tells him again. He glances at the way Derek is tightly holding the steering wheel, and what Scott had previously thought had been worry, now actually looks like genuine pain.

"You don't know that," Scott repeats again, his voice cracking.

"Yes I do," Derek says, turning flashing eyes at him briefly before looking back through the windscreen. "Because I'd know if he wasn't."

Scott doesn't respond to that, realising how deeply rooted Stiles was amongst them.

"He _is _pack" Isaac says to no one in particular.

He _is _pack.

xxx

Stiles is back in a room full of strange people. Mostly strange... Scott's mom is still there, hovering close and smiling at him. He tries to smile back but it breaks off into a whimper.

"Stiles?"

Glazed eyes roam around until they settle on the doctor from before.

"Hey there," the doctor says to him, before looming in close.

"Hey," Stiles manages back. It floats out of his mouth and stalls mid-air – the actual letters actually sliding from his lips in a kinetic typographic motion and suspends there until he allows a drawn out breath to follow through after them. He watches them as they disband with the pressure.

He'd lost the neck brace somewhere between the x-ray department and now, but he could still feel the pain rattling around his shoulder and arm, in his leg and across his head. The only difference was now he didn't care. He doesn't even know what he was worried about. Whatever they had him on was the shit. Non-injured people didn't know what they were missing.

"Everything came back clear, Stiles-" he's telling him. He can see Melissa break into a huge smile.

"Yay..." Stiles drunkenly slurs. It's elongated and drawn out and sounds kinda funny so he tries to repeat it again.

"But your arm's still broken."

He stalls on the third 'yay' and glances at where his arm still lay in a brace. Oh. He'd forgotten about that. Explains the pain.

Someone giggles in the room and Stiles finds it amusing that they think it's funny. He shouldn't, of course. He should be outraged, fuming, that someone is amused at his misfortune.

The doctor glances at him in bemusement and Stiles realises that it might actually be him who's giggling. This, of course, sets off another round of giggles. It causes his body to shudder and shake until some of the pain breaks through his drug-induced stupor.

"Ow," he mutters with a frown.

"Stiles," Melissa reminds him to focus simply by her tone.

"Right," Stiles says in a hiss, eyes blinking. "Arm. Broken. Got it."

"Good," Melissa says with a nod. "Try and stay focused."

"It hurts," he says, turning hurtful eyes to the doctor.

"It's not the good stuff. I promise," the doctor tells him.

"Damn," Stiles mutters. If this is how he felt on the mediocre painkiller relief, the good stuff must be like fairy dust. He made a mental note to ask Derek about that.

"Your shoulder's dislocated too," the doctor continues.

"I suck," Stiles huffs out and then giggles some more. Squinting his eyes at them he asks "So what next?"

"We pop it back in. Once we do that we can cast the arm."

"That sounds like it sucks even more," Stiles says. The only realignment of dislocated shoulders he's seen, admittedly on TV, involved being straddled and a lot of screaming.

"It's going to suck even more if I don't reset it."

"Sold," Stiles breathes out quickly. "What are you waiting for?"

"Firstly, Stiles... I've got to warn you," the doctor tells him as more people converge on him, readying for violence, even his beloved Mrs McCall. "It will hurt, even with the pain relief. If it becomes too much for you to handle, I'll give you some more. If we have trouble we might have to perform minor surgery to do it."

Stiles blanches and shakes his head.

"Not going to happen. The little sucker is going back in."

Stiles ends up screaming the place down as soon as the arm is jostled.

"Dad!" he screams as his arm is pulled painfully, igniting white hot heat in an explosion that reaches out to both the end of his fingers and out across his chest to settle under his sternum, "Daaaaaaaaad!"

He's immediately there, flying through swinging doors, and filling the gap that Melissa unquestionably makes for him. There's a curt choice of words as an exchange takes place. "I'm staying."

"Dad?" Stiles frantically tries to move against the resisting hands. He feels the sudden appearance of tears at his presence. "It hurts. It fucking hurts."

"I know it does, kiddo. You gotta keep still. It'll be over soon."

"No, you don't understand," Stiles says, shaking his head as he breaks into full on sobs (he'll blame it on the drugs later). "They're going to... they're trying to... Make them stop, Dad. _Please_."

"Shh, Stiles..." his dad is murmuring at him. He's gathering Stiles good hand in his own and stroking his head again. Stiles should be embarrassed as hell but he's not because he's in pain and bleeding and his shoulder is freaking currently not where it's supposed to be and he's one of from sniffing fairy dust. "I know, kiddo. I know. They told me outside. You need this, Stiles. Once it's done, you'll feel better."

His eyes swim wetly over his dad and he might as well be saying _'promise?' _because his dad is smiling and nodding and looking equally livid at whoever was responsible for putting him here in the first place. Instead he asks "Don't let go, okay?"

"I wont."

His dad, as promised, doesn't let go. Stiles doesn't either as he crushes his father's hand within his own.

There's more screaming, blood curdling and toe curling, and straddling too. And yes, he thinks, as there's a bone popping noise loud in his ear, it was just as horrific as thought it would be.

He's left panting and shaking, oxygen mask being slid over his face, gasping for breath. Through it all, Stiles realises through the sudden fog, his dad didn't let go, not even for a second.

"I've got you, Stiles. I've got you."

xxx

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: This was supposed to be just a short Stiles/Sheriff h/c fic and I was going to leave it with Stiles pondering how lucky his Jeep is. However I'd be a horrendous person to leave it there, considering Stiles and Scott's relationship seems to be disintegrating right in front of my eyes. And I realised I had a great opportunity to explore some pack feels. I mean this is all new to most of the pack, apart from Derek, who I suddenly realised might have lost some of that loving feeling, and what it feels like to have humans in the pack, back when the fire happened. Whether I do it any justice, well that's another story. There's also to be some Stilinski Jeep love.

Still, the main focus is Stiles/Sheriff and Stiles/pack feels.

**Disclaimer**: See Ch.1

**Chapter 4**

They arrive to the sound of screaming. Pain-filled and terrified screaming. More importantly, Scott realises, is that it is actually _Stiles _who's doing the screaming.

He stills, heart thudding wildly in his chest, a growl forming from deep within. Isaac glances at him with horror-filled eyes.

"Stiles!" he yells. He starts running at the door, acutely aware that he can smell him. His best friend. His blood. His pain. Heartbeats loud in his ears, mixing with his own.

"Scott, wait!" he hears Derek command from behind. He doesn't though, only coming to a stop when his own mother quickly exits the room and practically body checks him backwards.

"Mom," he says, voice cracking.

"He's okay," she quickly tells him, placing a hand on his arm.

Another, more muted, wail is heard through the door.

"How can he be?" he can hear the too fast beats to the heart. He can still feel the nauseating pain. He can still feel the lingering fear. "He's in pain and scared."

"I know honey," his mom nods at him. She flicks her head back at the door, pointing at it over her shoulder with her thumb. "But his dad's in there with him."

"He's okay?" Scott repeats hopefully. He glances around at the others who all look a bit stricken. Even Derek looks on the pale side.

His mom nods at him.

"He's beat as hell. A little shaken up. So far it doesn't look like anything's life threatening."

"Why was he screaming like that?" Isaac softly asks beside him. He's clearly still shaken himself.

"He's got a broken arm and dislocated shoulder. Same arm."

He hears Derek breathe in sharply behind him as though he knew what that combination felt like, as though he hadn't been anything but werewolf. Scott blinks in surprise over his shoulder at him.

"They have to put it back in before they cast the arm," his mom continues. "It's pretty nasty, even with pain relief."

Another shriek suddenly cuts off sharply, pain flaring in his own arm and shoulder, although Scott picks up the faint gasps of breath and the soft murmurings from his father which follow. By the look on both Isaac and Derek's faces they had felt it too.

"Was that it?" Scott asks, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Poor kid," Derek mutters.

Melissa nods, glancing back. "I should get back in there."

"Mom, wait -" Scott grabs at her arm. "I need to see him."

She turns and nods sympathetically.

"I know but his dad's in there and it's pretty crowded. Take a seat and wait."

Scott starts to protest but she folds her arms and gives him the mom look, the one he knows that he will never win, so nods reluctantly.

"Good," she smiles in satisfaction. "I promise as soon as we've got him settled you'll be able to see him. Okay?"

Scott nods again and heads for the small strip of chairs against the wall. He feels Derek and Isaac start to file in after him.

"Not you," he hears his mom say. Her voice sounds colder and less inviting. Looking back he sees that she's singled Derek out. She points at them all before saying - "As far as I know Stiles hasn't told his dad about you guys yet, right?"

Derek nods at her.

"I can explain Scott and Isaac. It's a given really," his mom says. He looks on nervously as she actually stares down an alpha but Derek doesn't even flinch, simply stares back. "But I can't explain Derek Hale sitting in the waiting room. Ex-wanted felon and murder suspect."

"Mom-" Scott starts to protest.

"It's okay," Derek says in warning.

"I'm not going to be the reason that the Sheriff finds out and he's definitely not finding out by seeing you here. And it will come out. He wont leave it alone until he finds out."

"I thought you didn't agree with Stiles lying to his dad?" Scott pipes up.

"I don't," she shakes her head. "But I know that boy. He'd lie through his teeth if he thought he was going to protect his dad. They're already on fragile ground. This will just make it worse. Besides, Stiles needs to be the one to tell him. Not circumstance."

Derek nods and accepts it gracefully, "Yeah, you're right. I should check on the others anyway."

Derek's gone before Scott can even blink. He stays sitting there in bewilderment until he realises why. Isaac sums it up perfectly.

"Never thought I'd see the day when your mom and Derek actually agree on something."

xxx

"You're a lucky son-of-a-bitch," the doctor tells him sometime after his arm is cast and they've put twelve stitches down the side of his face and scalp and at least twenty-four across his thigh, when he's still thrumming on the after effects of pain relief, gas and air.

Stiles doesn't feel lucky but by the look on everyone's faces he might as well be a walking miracle. What person gets thrown though a windscreen and only walks away with cuts and broken bones? The doctor's words. Not his. He wants to point out he has twelve stitches in his face and twenty-four across his thigh. That any lucky person wouldn't have had a broken arm _and _a dislocated shoulder. According to the tests they had found some older damage to the shoulder ligaments, an old injury (thank you, you old crotchety bastard) that was just asking for it to be popped out. Being thrown through a windscreen and hitting cold concrete appeared to be that catalyst.

He's dad senses his discomfort and pats his good hand reassuringly. Stiles sees the way his dad's face twitches with the doctor's words.

"What about the blood pressure?" his dad asks tightly. Stiles isn't sure why he's dad's so worried about his blood pressure. He pulls his hand out from under his dad's and squeezes it.

"I'm fine dad. Didn't hear you what the doc said," Stiles throws him a lazy grin, aborting it with a wince as he felt the stitches pull stiffly against his face. His voice sounds hoarse and scratchy. Screaming will do that to you it seems.

His dad smiles back and squeezes his hand in return. There's still a worried frown there though.

"We can't find any signs of internal bleeding."

Internal bleeding. Huh. No wonder his dad looks so worried. He can't remember anyone saying that before but for all knew they did. He's only just remembering now that someone – and he really wants his dad to start taking names – might have cut his pants off.

"His blood pressure's improved now. It might just be from shock. His potassium levels were on a bit on the low side, which indicated he might have been dehydrated and although he didn't nick any arteries with the cut to his leg, he still lost quite a bit of blood. Not enough to be life threatening. We're going to set an IV up – rehydrate him and then we'll check his platelet levels. I suspect his BP will improve with a saline drip but depending on his blood results we might consider a blood transfusion."

Stiles watches as his dad sags a little. Some of the tension drifts out of his shoulders and he feels the squeeze tighten to his hand.

Stiles vaguely remembers that he had Lacrosse practice. That he hadn't drank anything, save for a quick refreshment brake, then high-tailed it to the pack meeting with Scott and Isaac. In fact that was probably the last drink he'd had.

"And his head? The scans?"

"All good," the doctor answers confidently. "He's got a grade 3 concussion, so he's going to have a hell of headache. There might be some confusion and nausea too. The cut to his thigh was deep. It went through muscle. We're not sure if there's any nerve damage yet, but he's probably going to need some physio. No spinal damage either, which is why we got rid of the collar."

Confusion, nausea, muscles and nerve damage. None of that sounded anywhere near lucky and he huffs out a breath of displeasure to show it.

"What with his BP, the concussion and his leg, we'll want to keep him in at least for a day or so."

His huff of displeasure filters out of him as he starts to protest, body flailing slightly on the bed. "Stay in? No, dad. I don't need to. I'm fine-" whatever argument he was trying to prove suddenly gets cut off as the flailing (and some bad timing) causes his head to throb and that sudden wretched nausea to rise.

"You think?" his dad asks, voice a mixture of amusement and concern, as a vomit bowl majestically appears in front of his face just as his body decides to hurl it's cookies. He groans, as he retches over it, clutching his pulsating head with his free hand. His dad catches it within his own while keeping the bowl in place. "You're staying, kid. No arguments."

Stiles doesn't protest on the grounds he's totally spent. Once he's done his dad settles him back down against his pillow and the doctor's shining that blasted pen-light in his eyes again as though the whole process is starting all over again. He considers swiping the horrendous contraption from the offending hand but his dad still has his clasped in his own. The cast on his other arm is heavy and probably damage-worthy but it felt like too much effort to even lift it, so he leaves it alone.

"Only to be expected," the doctor murmurs at them, pocketing it away. _Thank god_.

The room spins in front of him. He closes his eyes against the onslaught, feeling the familiar roll of his stomach, as his dad hums next to him.

"I wont give you anything for it just yet. We want to able to assess to see if anything changes and an anti-emetic might mask it," the doctor tells them. Stiles frowns, not really liking the idea of repeat performances just for the entertainment for these so-called professionals. When he catches sight of both Stiles and his father's own disapproving frown, he pats at Stiles leg, on an area that was thankfully free of any discomfort. "We'll give you something if it gets worse. Just let us know, okay?"

Stiles smiles thinly at him (because that's all he can manage without the pull of stitches), shows a bit of teeth, hoping that he looks vaguely threatening. He frees his hand from his dad and gives a half-hearted thumbs up.

"Asshole" Stiles mutters for the second time that evening once the doctor has left the room. He drops his hand back on to the bed.

"Stiles-" his father admonishes him, but there's a smirk on his face too.

He attempts a shrug but gasps a little before looking blearily around him. He sees that someone has brought a clear bag in with some of his belongings. He recognises his jacket on top of it and sees that whatever else is in there is covered in blood.

"My pants," stiles moans in frustration, voice accusatory. "Someone cut them off. They're ruined. My good ones too."

His dad snorts at him, looking at him funny. "They were covered in blood, kid. Pretty much ruined already."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times. He's going to argue that he can wash it out (considers asking Derek for tips but then realises that's probably the reason he has a tendency to be half naked all the time) but instead he jumps a little.

"The Jeep, dad-" Stiles starts, swallowing the muffled pain. "We just left it in the middle of the road. Anything can happen to it."

Yeah, as soon as it slipped out of his mouth, he knew it sounded absurd. Because, _really_.

"Hey," his dad shuffles his seat closer and braces a soft hand against his chest – because he knew it was still sore there, ribs bruised and tender – keeping him in place. "The guys down the station are securing the scene."

"I don't give a damn-" _about the guys down the station _Stiles starts but shuts up quickly when sees his dad's eyes flash angrily. A fleeting feeling of shame passes through him, as he settles back against the bed, pouting. "I don't know them. They don't know me. They don't understand."

His dad's eyes soften.

"I'm the sheriff. They know me," his dad tells him, reaching up and touching the other side of his face gently. "Don't worry about the Jeep. I'm sorting it."

He can't help but worry about the Jeep. It was important. It was significant, and for a day that had started out with a lot of insignificances, it was ending with a pretty big one.

"It was bad. Right?" Stiles asks, closing his eyes, feeling the pull of a drug induced slumber. He waved his hand lazily to where he thought his dad's face might be. "I saw your face."

His hand is caught mid-air, enveloped in the warmth of his father. When he cracked his eyes open he could see the tell-tell signs of tears in his eyes.

"My face looked like that because my only son just went through the windscreen of his car," his dad says, voice sounding strained yet familiar. Stiles hadn't heard that type of torment since his dad took him out of class to tell him his mother had passed away. Stiles gulps against his own sudden emotion and fear that he is responsible for his father's pain. Again. "Stiles, why the hell were you not wearing your belt. What were you thinking, kid?"

"My shoulder was bothering me. Lacrosse practice must have irritated it."

"Yeah?" his dad muses. "You should have told me."

"I'm sorry," Stiles says quickly, honestly.

His dad sighs and drops his head to rest against Stiles' hand.

"We were lucky, kid. So so lucky," his dad breathes quietly against his skin.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers again.

They lapse into silence. Stiles fills it with what-if scenarios and gets stuck in one where he sees his dad grief-stricken and a shadow of his former self. It involves full blown alcoholism and dying alone from a heart attack or wasting away from liver disease.

"Hey," he feels his dad tug on his hand.

"Hmm" he asks lazily, words slurring with a mixture of tiredness and drugs, everything slowing. There was an alluring and steady beep pulling him down.

"The Jeep will be okay. I was expecting it to be worse."

Stiles can't help the little burst of laughter that erupts from him, it slips out easily and rolls off the tongue as though the exhaustion and drugs had untethered it. He wondered, if he dared open his eyes, if he'd see it like the words that had escaped from him before. He'd breathe it back in and let it fill every part of his being.

"What?" he feels his dad rumble next to him.

"Nothing," Stiles answers.

He'd been lucky today, apparently, and walked away with broken and dislocated arms, concussions, cuts and bruises. The Jeep, just like him, according to his dad, was pretty lucky too (he hoped, anyway, because his dad was no mechanic) and he laughs again, the flavor of it filling his mouth. _Statistically speaking..._

xxx

Derek called Erica, knowing Boyd would be with her, on the way back from the hospital. They told him they were in the woods to see if they could pick up any signs of the alpha pack. Derek had told them what had happened to Stiles and that he wasn't happy for the two of them to be out there by themselves. They had barely survived their last encounter with them.

He hadn't been able to get hold of Jackson and headed back to the house to wait for Erica and Boyd instead.

Surprisingly he finds Lydia Martin standing on his porch.

"Something's wrong with Jackson," Lydia tells him coldly.

He pushes past her to see Jackson pacing in the ramshackle of his living room. Jackson looks terrible, face shiny with sweat, pale and trembling. His eyes looked lighter than usual but not the usual blue orbs he was accustomed to when the beta was shifting. It wasn't completely obvious, but Derek thought he saw subtle changes, small flicks and contortions, as his skeletal frame shifted under his skin.

"Jackson?"

"I feel like shit," he grinds out at him.

"How long have you felt like this?" Derek asks as he inches himself closer. They both looked up as small and soft footsteps followed from behind, seeing Lydia joining them. She stays back, in the the wooden frame, shying from them.

"Since the pack meeting. I think. I don't know?" Jackson shakes his head. "It got worse after."

Another roll of bone against skin and Jackson drops heavily on to the old and dusty couch.

"God. It hurts," he growls. A tiny whimper follows.

"What's happening to him?" Lydia asks from behind. Her voice is a perfect mixture of accusation and concern.

Derek doesn't answer her directly. He has his suspicions but can't be sure.

Derek crouches low in front of him and tests his theory by wrapping his hand tightly around Jackson's arm.

"Does that feel better?"

Jackson's eyes dim a little, his features softening. He glances down at Derek's hand on his arm and then looks back up at him with surprise.

"Yeah... how?"

"It's a pack thing," Derek tells him, surprised at how better he too feels and ashamed that he hadn't recognised it for what it was. "You felt lost, bereft, like you were losing control. You felt the pain too."

"Derek?" Lydia huffs in frustration.

"Stiles was in an accident. Car crash."

Jackson surprises them all when his eyes suddenly flash bright again. A growl escapes as he pushes up, claws extending. Even Derek jumps back a little, struggling to re-balance himself, before he pushes Jackson back with his hand across his chest.

"What the hell was that?" Lydia exclaims in shock, jumping. "Wait? What?"

"Stilinski..." Jackson growls, pushing against him.

"He's fine," Derek reassures the two teens before directing his stare back at Jackson's morphing face, eyes flashing red. "Calm down."

Jackson instantly does, but remains agitated and tense under his hand, and Derek shakes his head. Of all people, it was Jackson, who had felt it first. It wasn't a new feeling to Derek – he had, after all, had human pack members before but he hadn't been connected to anything like this, felt like this, since the fire. He figured, somewhere down the line, he'd forgotten what it had felt like.

But still... _Jackson?_

xxx

Stiles wakes to find his dad in the corner of the room whispering into his phone. When he sees that he is awake he throws him an apologetic smile and speaks a little bit louder.

"No, he's awake now. I'll head down there. Thanks for letting me know."

"Going into work?" Stiles asks. His voice sounds a bit on the slurred side. He can't deny that he feels a little stung by his dad's decision but then belatedly remembers that Stiles impromptu exit through a window had interrupted his dad's shift.

"Sorry, kid-" his dad tells him, looking a bit conflicted. "- but the female driver just handed herself in. I want to be there."

Stiles blinks a few times as he tries to figure out his dad's words.

"What?"

_Flashing lights_

_Sudden accelerating and braking_

_Horns blaring_

_A flash of terrified eyes_

"No. Wait-" Stiles asks, snagging his dad's arm and pulling him close. "It wasn't her fault."

"Stiles," his dad warns, trying to extricate his fingers from his shirt. "C'mon son, I wont be long."

"It's not her fault," Stiles reinforces. His voice hitches in his throat and he has no idea why. Damn concussions for making his priorities all out of whack. "The other driver was terrifying her."

"Stiles-"

"She didn't drive me off the road."

"No, but she still left the scene of a crime-"

A crime. So that's how it was. Not an accident. Stiles Stilinksi who was known for prat-falls, who actively sought out danger, who went running around the woods looking for second half's of dead bodies, who ran down kanima's and kept sour wolf's afloat in pools for two hours at a time, was a victim of a crime. He was already closely acquainted with attempted murder, but what his dad didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

"- she left my son bleeding in the middle of the road," his dad continues with a hard voice. "You could have been dead for all she knew."

"Dad-" Stiles croaks at him.

"Stiles," his dad cuts him off. "I'm just going down the station to hear what she has to say. She might be able to give us a description of the car that hit you."

"Kay," Stiles agrees reluctantly, releasing his dad's shirt. He drops a little back into the mattress, his own inexplicable panic and his dad's palpable tension leaving him spent again.

"Besides," his dad murmurs down at him, placing a soft kiss on an area of his forehead that wasn't bruised and swollen, which he really didn't mind that much because he was sick and injured and all. "I need to sort out the Jeep."

"Kay," Stiles mumbles again, his lips twitching. "The Jeep... that's good. Go get her."

His dad's gone for all of a minute before the door opens again.

"You're back already?" he asks in surprise, wondering if his head injury was leaving him with gaping holes.

"No. I haven't actually left yet," his dad reassures him. He nods towards the door with his head. "Scott and Isaac are outside. Are you up to visitors yet?"

Stiles instantly feels cold, lingering anchor rear up within him. In the chaos of the accident, Stiles hadn't thought of Scott – or the pack – save for a few ridiculous mental images of Derek.

_'you might not get it, Stiles. I mean you're not one of us.'_

"No," Stiles says, aware of how his own voice hardens.

"It's Scott," his dad reminds him. "I'd feel better if there was someone here."

"Tell him to go. Isaac too."

His dad looks at him with puzzlement.

"Has something happened between you two?"

Stiles manages a shake of the head even though his whole body resists the lie.

"Is this the reason why Scott called me looking for you?" his dad asks, looking at him in disbelief.

Stiles gives a one shoulder shrug instead, not even realising Scott had called his father.

"Stiles?"

Stiles tries to hunker down lower in to the bed covers. It turns into a pathetic wriggle that just infuriates his shoulder some more.

"I don't want to see them, dad. Send them home."

He hears his dad sigh. "Okay. Get some sleep, son. We'll talk about this later."

Stiles mumbles under the sheet, hearing his dad's footsteps faintly move away.

About five minutes after his father has left, the door opens again, soft footsteps inching their way to him.

"Dad?" Stiles grouses from under the cover. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"Uh. It's not your dad," he hears instead.

He knows who it is before he even peeps out of the sheets. Scott's standing there with a sheepish look on his face.

"What are you still doing here?" Stiles asks.

"I... uh... just-" Scott says, looking around the room before settling pained eyes on him. "... I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm alive," Stiles states the obvious. "You can go now."

"Stiles," Scott says, stepping forward.

Scott had never been that quick on the uptake and he clearly doesn't recognise when he's not welcome. He can't exactly manage a roll, but he at least succeeds with a half of one, exposing his back.

"Stiles," Scott pleads, voice sounding hurt and rejected. _Good. _"Please don't be like this."

A soft hand is placed on his back.

"I'm sorry. I never meant for it to sound the way it did."

Stiles felt his eyes sting. He wasn't going to cry, but he sure as hell wasn't going to roll over and pat Scott on the head and tell him that everything was fine, that he was a good boy, and all was forgiven.

"Stiles?" Scott asks again, more hopefully. There's a pause while he waits for a response.

Nothing. Nope. Nil. Nada.

xxx

_tbc_


End file.
